


Ever the Dim Beginning

by perilit



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28578216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perilit/pseuds/perilit
Summary: Grieving and exhausted from the failed robbery in Saint Denis, Dutch and Arthur find the rest of the gang holed up in Lakay.Only - Hosea is not as dead as they thought, and Dutch's refusal to stop running is the final straw.
Relationships: Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 18
Kudos: 76





	Ever the Dim Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for your patience folks!

The whole thing was a goddamn mess. 

They’d escaped by the skin of their teeth, after the failure of Hosea’s bank robbery and god, _Hosea_ …

Arthur had to blink back tears for the hundredth time. 

Guarma.

Arthur still couldn’t sleep through the night, still on edge, expecting at any moment to hear the sounds of shouting in foreign tongues and gunfire and the ear-splitting screech of the jungle. 

It wasn’t any easier to breathe in Lakay, even without the unfamiliar salty air and insects crawling over him at all hours. The air here was just as soupy, the heat soaking through his shirt like water, and Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a deep breath.

He supposed that should scare him more than it did. He didn’t feel much fear, these days-- didn’t feel much of anything beyond _grief_ and _fatigue_. 

Dutch wasn’t much better. 

Arthur had pushed open the door to his room about a week after they’d joined the others in Lakay, found the older man sitting on the sagging cot with his legs planted on the floor, sliding his knife back into its sheath, caught the dark crimson on his shirtsleeve.

He’d taken Dutch’s knife after that, given it to Charles for safekeeping, but while Dutch wasn’t carving lines into himself anymore, he wasn’t getting _better_ , either. 

Susan had taken it upon herself to force food into Arthur at least once a day, and he assumed she was doing the same for Dutch. 

The few times Arthur had poked his head into Dutch’s room after that, the man had been sitting on the cot, staring at the grimy floor by his feet. Just...staring. 

No book in hand, no soft gramophone in the background, no pen and paper in hand with some grand speech in the works. 

Just Dutch, more fragile and lost than Arthur had ever seen him.

Dutch looked...well, about how Arthur felt.

Hosea was gone, and none of them had any idea what to do without him. 

* * *

  
  


Milton had been crueler than any of them had expected.

Hosea had known something was wrong the moment he’d caught Milton’s pockmarked face around a corner. He’d been careless, too caught up in the hope buzzing under his skin at the thought of freedom, peace, safety. 

Milton’s fingers had been cold where they’d curled around his wrist, his grip on the suit jacket too rough.

Hosea had succumbed to the white-hot pain to thoughts of _Dutch_ and _Arthur_ and _John_ , only to waken in a doctor's office, alone, bare-chested and wrapped in swathes of bandages. 

He'd rented a hotel room with the money he had left after paying the doctor, breathing through the waves of pain and gripping at the sheets white-knuckled.

He'd cried, that first night, in the hotel, alone in the dark, letting the tears run down his temples and soak the pillow underneath. The way Dutch had spiraled after Annabelle taunted him. Hosea wasn’t there to catch him, this time. 

It had taken him another week once he was back on his feet to track down the gang. 

They'd done well covering their tracks -- he had to believe this was Charles, Dutch was always far too obvious-- but finally, he swung himself up onto the placid gelding he'd picked up - _stolen-_ from the Saint Denis stable. The horse was no Silver Dollar, but he was gentle and fast, and he tolerated the pain-induced tug at his mane as Hosea swung into the saddle with no more than a twitch of his ears. Hosea stroked a hand down his neck, giving his sides a squeeze and heading in the direction of Lakay.

  
  


For all his steady stoicism, Charles' wide eyes at the camp border tell Hosea all he needs to know.

_Well._ He'd thought he was dead, too.

Charles is crossing over to him, then, clasping Hosea's hand in his own and helping him down, keeping his face carefully neutral at Hosea's wince of pain and taking the reins with gentle hands. 

Tilly sees him first, her face freezing like she's seen a ghost and then lighting up as tears spill down her pretty cheeks. She's yelling for the others, then, running up to greet him and winding her arms around his ribs, burying her head in his neck. He strokes a hand down her back soothingly, ignoring the way his own eyes dampen. 

She pulls back, cupping his face in her hands. 

'It's...well, it's real good to see you, Hosea. Dutch and Arthur'll be real glad." 

"They're-" 

"They're…how you'd expect." Her face shutters. 

There's a choked noise, and Hosea looks over Tilly's shoulder. 

Arthur is standing, one hand still on his holster, face pale and haunted as he stares at Hosea, lips parted.

"Arthur…" Hosea murmurs, his legs carrying him over to the grass. Tilly lets him go easily. 

Arthur meets him halfway, stumbling a little in his haste. Hosea sweeps him in his arms, pulling Arthur as close as he can manage. He can feel the way Arthur's shakes on the exhale, frowns at the rattle in his breathing, but mostly, he buries his face in Arthur's hair. Arthur swallows a sob against Hosea's chest and Hosea smooths his hand through the sandy locks, lets a few tears of his own escape, clings to his boy, _his boy_ , his precious, dear boy, until Arthur pulls away, looking more worn-out than Hosea has ever seen him, eyes red, but so _relieved_ it almost hurts to look at. 

"Hosea." he whispers.

"My boy," Hosea responds, still cupping Arthur’s face. 

"You- we thought you were-" 

"Thought I was too. Some fool picked my body off the street, took me to the doc. Seems Milton's not the crack shot he thinks he is." 

Arthur's lips twitch - whether out of relief or pent-up grief, Hosea doesn't know. Arthur looks at him fondly, finally breaking out of Hosea’s grasp.

"The others'll wanna see ya. You wanna sit down?" 

Hosea wants to protest at the question, wants to scoff and insist he's fine, but he's tired enough that he’s trembling with it and his chest aches, so he lets Arthur lead him into the crumbling shack, pulling out a chair for him. 

Susan is there, then, her eyes damp, putting a cup of coffee in front of him and clasping his hand tightly. There's a flood of chatter, male and female voices bleeding together and washing over him as Hosea takes in the sight -- family, his family, safe and whole and here.

_Mostly_ here.

The room goes silent, suddenly, and Hosea is about to ask-

Dutch is in the doorway, his mouth parted in shock, one hand on his holster. 

"Dutch," Hosea whispers, standing unsteadily from the chair. He can feel his hands shaking. Dutch's mouth opens and closes, one of his hands suddenly gripping the doorframe white-knuckled as his knees give out. 

Hosea ignores the women's concerned gasps, ignores Arthur’s startled “ _Dutch!_ ”, crossing the room and kneeling in front of Dutch, cradling the man's face in his hands. Dutch's eyes flood with tears, a strangled sob tearing itself from his chest as he collapses into Hosea. 

Dimly, Hosea registers Susan ushering everyone out of the room.

Dutch is shaking in his grip, breathing coming fast and shallow enough that he chokes on his spit, coughs hard, tears away from Hosea suddenly to retch dry onto the floorboards. He’s still shaking hard enough that he can't quite hold himself upright.

"Dutch-" Hosea scoots himself over to Dutch, gathering the man in his arms again. Dutch is gasping open-mouthed, chest heaving for breath, and he buries his head in Hosea's shoulder, huffing into the fabric. "Breathe, Dutch, _neshema sheli_ , you've gotta breathe," Hosea whispers.

Dutch shudders against him, adjusts himself so his ear is directly above Hosea’s heart. 

Hosea closes his eyes at the familiar motion, tangles his fingers in the curls he didn’t think he’d ever feel again. 

Dutch looks like something out of a renaissance painting in the afternoon light, his lashes clumped inky against the unnatural pale of his skin, watercolor bursts of rosy blotchiness dappled across his cheeks. 

The room is still. Hosea can hear the clamor of Susan gently scolding someone, and Arthur must be keeping folks away from the door, because his drawl is close and warm in Hosea’s ears. Dutch’s breathing is slowly returning to a regular rhythm, his ear still pressed close to Hosea’s chest. 

Hosea smooths feather-light fingers down Dutch’s jaw, lifting the man’s face up to his own. 

Dutch’s eyes open, bloodshot and clouded with grief and sorrow, but blessedly present. 

‘’Sea…” he breathes, voice nothing but a wrecked whisper. 

Hosea feels his lips twitch into a smile at the sound. “Dutch.” he murmurs.

Dutch’s brows knit together. “I thought…” he says quietly, sitting up and smoothing a hand over Hosea’s chest. 

Hosea can’t quite suppress a quiet hiss of pain as Dutch’s clever fingers brush over his wound, and the man’s eyes widen, his fingers nimbly working open the buttons of Hosea’s cotton shirt. His expression crumples again slightly at the thick bandage wrapped around the better part of Hosea’s shoulder and chest, before flitting back to Hosea’s face. 

“I’m okay,” Hosea whispers, reaching out with his other hand to settle soothingly on the back of Dutch’s neck. “Milton’s not the marksman he makes himself out to be. Got damn close, but some bleedin’ heart got me to a doctor, and I...won’t lie to you, m’hurtin’ Dutch, but I’m here. I’m _here_.” 

Dutch’s eyes crinkle into something warm and relieved - an expression Hosea hasn’t seen in the better part of a year, and Hosea feels his own composure finally crumble in the face of a Dutch he had almost given up on ever seeing again, his worn down by pain and relief and the aching loneliness that had eaten at him for weeks. Dutch’s brow furrows, and he pushes himself to his feet, lifting Hosea with him. Hosea blurrily focuses on the shape of Dutch’s arms, strong in the lines of his thin summer shirt through the veil of his tears, blindly letting the man lead him through the sagging building as hot tears continue to stream down his face, unable to stop now that the dam had burst, even as his chest erupts in agony with his hitching breaths. 

Dutch has wound an arm around the small of his back, the other one pushing open the door to a small bedroom - his own, judging by the familiar bedroll spread on the tiny cot. Hosea stumbles as Dutch guides him down onto the cot.

Those clever hands are back on him in an instant, cupping his face and gathering the moisture under his eyes with calloused thumbs. Hosea closes his eyes, a soft sob escaping him as Dutch guides him down to the cot, tucking Hosea into his chest with his injured side to the wall, curling his body around him - a barrier between Hosea and the rest of the world. Dutch presses a kiss to Hosea’s knotted forehead but stays silent, and Hosea loves him all the more for it. 

How many times had he held Dutch just like this, the roles reversed?

Hosea takes a breath, shuddering past the lump still in his throat.

“Promise me...promise me we can stop running,” he whispers, overwhelmed by the press of Dutch’s body against his, the hot poker of pain in his chest, the broken dam of his emotions. 

Dutch is quiet for a long moment, and Hosea can do nothing but wait - he doesn’t have it in him to argue right now, thinks that if Dutch starts spinning yarns about Tahiti, he might just get back on his horse, no matter how much it would hurt to leave everything he’s just gotten back. He presses his face into Dutch’s chest, ignores the way his chest twinges. 

... _Maybe he’s better off leaving anyway, letting death have its way._

_He wouldn’t even have to do much, go somewhere cold and wet and just let fate take its course….he’s tired enough for it. The doctor didn’t seem hopeful that he’d retain full motion, even after healing, and Hosea hasn’t let himself fully think about what_ **_that_ ** _means, because he’s already a liability...with the way the way his hands lock up when it’s cold, the way his chest and back and joints ache, his weak lungs. He’s a sad excuse for a man, now, body betraying him further at every single turn...maybe it’d be better for all of them, for himself, if he…_

Dutch is cupping his face, suddenly, his palms rough and warm against his cheeks, and Hosea blinks, surfacing from his thoughts. Dutch’s brow is wrinkled, love and concern warring for dominance in his eyes. 

“Hosea, _liefje_ , did you hear me?” 

Hosea shakes his head, still shaking off the darkness he’d plunged into. Dutch furrows his brows further, stroking a finger under Hosea’s eyes. 

“I said, we can stop soon, dearest, we just need-”

Hosea sits up suddenly, pushing away Dutch’s concerned hand and the spike of pain in his chest. “If you say _one more score_ , Van Der Linde, I will _get back on my horse_ ,” Hosea says, voice trembling. He doesn’t have the energy to channel anger, can’t summon up outrage or shock.

He’s just so goddamn _tired_.

“We’re almost there, Hosea-” Dutch’s voice is soft, placating, patronizing.

“Save it.” Hosea can feel the weariness in his voice. “I’m _done_.” 

He hears Dutch swallow. “What...what do you mean?” 

Hosea turns to face him again, meets Dutch’s wide eyes, still tinged with red.

“What is it going to take? How many bodies are you going to leave in your wake?” Hosea spits. “Jenny, Davey, Mac, Sean, Kieran….should I keep going? _Are you going to kill me, too_?”

Dutch makes a strangled noise, his hand closing around Hosea’s wrist. “Don’t say that,” the younger man begs, eyes wide and panicked. 

Hosea shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping his throat. “You keep going like this, and either you’ll end up killing me with these _plans_ of yours or _I’ll do it myself_.” 

Dutch goes very still. “Hosea...” 

The anger Hosea couldn't find before is suddenly rushing to the surface. “What is it going to take, Dutch? You almost lost me in Colter, almost lost me after that damn bank, and you want to keep going? I’m _tired_ , Dutch. Fine, keep going, if that’s what you want, but I’m _done_ . It’s been more than twenty years, and I can’t watch our son keep working himself into the ground, can’t watch the women starving because you can’t stop running and shooting and _making things worse_ . You promised me you’d _stop_ , Dutch. I’m _stopping_.”

Hosea’s voice cracks on the last syllable, and he swipes at his face, annoyed. He gets to his feet with a wince, staggering through the shack and past Arthur, who jumps to catch up with him, grasping Hosea’s elbow and guiding his arm behind Hosea’s shoulders. 

“‘Sea?” Arthur says, close to his ear, out of earshot of the others. 

_Smart_ , Hosea thinks. 

_This way, it’ll just look like Arthur’s helping him._

“Ride with me, son?” Hosea murmurs tiredly. 

Arthur eyes him. “Sure,” he says quietly, heading over to hand his gun to Charles. Hosea watches him murmur something in the man’s ear, and Charles looks up, meets Hosea’s eyes with a nod. 

  
  


Hosea ignores Arthur’s eyes on his back as he swings himself back into the saddle, letting out a pained hiss through his clenched teeth. After a beat, he hears Arthur settle onto his own horse, and Hosea gives the gelding a squeeze with his calves, turning back towards the road.

* * *

Arthur pulls up near him not long after they’re out of earshot from camp, nudging Cadell closer to Hosea’s horse. “Hosea,” he says, quiet, uncertain. 

Hosea pulls his horse off the road, the reins slipping out of his suddenly numb fingers. “I had hoped…” he starts, voice betraying his exhaustion, “that...Dutch would come around. That this was just another fleeting grand plan of his. And now…” he breaks off with a humorless chuckle. “Look at what he’s gotten us into now.” 

He looks up from his hands. Arthur is watching him, his face carefully neutral but his eyes - the ones that had never been able to lie to Hosea - are unspeakably sad. Arthur’s smarter than he lets on, smarter than Hosea and Dutch and anyone else ever give him credit for, and there’s a good chance he caught on to the change in Dutch right around the time Hosea himself did. 

“I know.” Arthur meets Hosea’s gaze steadily, and for the second time, Hosea is struck by how _tired_ his boy looks, how red Arthur’s eyes are, how sunken his face has gotten, and _god_ , Hosea doesn’t know if he’ll ever forgive himself. 

How did he miss his son being eaten away in front of him?

“We’ve gotta do _somethin’_ , Hosea. And fast. Pinkertons won’t stay gone forever. Milton’s still out for Dutch. The women, Jack, they need to get somewhere safe. And John-” 

Hosea startles at the wheezing, strangled cough that erupts from deep in Arthur’s chest, watches in alarm as Arthur doubles over in the saddle. He slides down from his own horse, ignoring the flare of pain that comes with the action, holding out a desperate, helpless hand to Arthur as the man struggles to catch his breath. 

Blindly, Arthur takes his hand, swinging unsteadily out of the saddle. Hosea can’t support his weight, and not for the first time, he curses his own weakness, but he guides Arthur down to the grass, pulling his boy against his chest. Arthur sucks in a rattling breath, and Hosea strokes a gentle hand across the broad chest that is bonier than he remembers. 

“Breathe, Arthur,” he says, the words trembling more than he intended. How many times had he or Dutch coached Arthur through blind panic just like this?

Arthur’s breaths are deepening under his palm, though his exhales still wheeze. 

“Have you seen a doctor, son?” Hosea says gently.

Arthur shakes his head. “No...time,” he rasps. 

Hosea opens his mouth to argue but--

_Arthur’s right._

Colm, Rhodes, the way both he and Dutch had never been in camp for long, too busy stirring up that godforsaken Braithwaite-Gray feud, Sean’s death, Bronte, Kieran’s death, that doomed bank heist…

Arthur had been in camp even less than he and Dutch combined. Hosea couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Arthur stay in camp longer than the time it took to hastily shovel in leftover stew and catch a few hours of sleep. 

Hosea stifles his own cough. Arthur sits up, tugging his hat further down. “You’re fine, son,” Hosea says absently, more out of habit than anything else. He knew his cough bothered the boy, even if he’d gotten better at hiding it over the years. 

“I’m tired, Arthur,” Hosea admits. “And Dutch….” He sighs. “Well, I don’t see Dutch stopping anytime soon. Not before he drives himself and everyone else into the grave. I thought I could stop it, before things got worse but- we’ve lost enough folk.”

“What are you planning?” Arthur says slowly, meeting Hosea’s gaze. 

“I’m...I’m leaving, son. I’ll take the women with me, little Jack, anyone we can. Micah’s a lost cause, hell, probably Bill and Javier too, but Charles, Sadie, John-”

“John’s in prison,” Arthur interrupts tiredly.

“ _What?_ ” Hosea says sharply, softening when Arthur startles a fraction.

“In Saint Denis. When Milton-” Arthur swallows. “They got John, put him in the penitentiary in Sisika.”

Hosea sighs. “We’ll get John, then. I doubt Dutch has said a word about getting him out?”

Arthur shakes his head, tugging on his hat again.

Hosea blows out a breath through his nose. “I won’t make you do anything, son but-” 

“I’ll come with you.” It’s quiet, but Hosea knows he means it, can see the clear, firm resolve under the grief in Arthur’s face. “I lost you once already, Hosea, I- and Dutch, he’s-,” Arthur breaks off, guilt and grief flickering across his features.

“I know,” Hosea whispers.

He can’t fight the urge to pull Arthur to him again. Arthur goes easily, nestling his face in the crook of Hosea’s neck like he did as a boy. 

Neither of them say a word about the silent tears that dampen Hosea’s ascot. The road is quiet around them, and Hosea rests his cheek on Arthur’s limp hair.

He didn’t plan on running without Dutch, not after this many years. But it seems that’s the only choice he’s got left. 

* * *

_Tenderly - be not impatient,_

_(Strong is your hold O mortal flesh, strong_ _is your hold, O love.)_


End file.
